


oceans between us

by mihael_jeevas



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Class Differences, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:42:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28186320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mihael_jeevas/pseuds/mihael_jeevas
Summary: It has been roughly five years, six months, and eight weeks since Itachi gathered his most valuable possessions and left the intricately carved pillars and the lush, green grass of his family’s mansion for the stuffy world of academia--not, of course, that Shisui has been counting.
Relationships: Uchiha Itachi/Uchiha Shisui
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27
Collections: ShiIta is Love✨HashiMada is Life





	oceans between us

**Author's Note:**

> or: the very loose atonement au that absolutely no one asked for. prior knowledge of the film isn't necessary to undersand this fic and i've definitely taken a lot of liberties with the source material when it comes to certain plot points and settings, but the overall tone is the same.
> 
> also, as indicated by the work tags, warnings for homophobia, discussions of classism/poverty, and war-time violence/injuries apply. there is no warning for sexual assault as that aspect of the original story has been omitted from this retelling.

The heir apparent to the Uchiha dynasty returns to the family’s estate on a balmy summer morning.

Shisui learns of the homecoming in much the same fashion he learns of most things that affect his employer: by watching from the sidelines, too unremarkable and unbecoming to the elites around him to be noticed. Of course, even if he hadn’t seen Itachi arrive with his own eyes--dressed in a fancy pressed suit and wearing his most severe expression--he would have known of the young master’s appearance just by the army of giggling handmaidens and gossipy servants shuffling around the property. He supposes the reaction is to be expected given Itachi’s extended absence from his family home and the fondness many of the staff have had for him since his boyhood. It has been roughly five years, six months, and eight weeks since Itachi gathered his most valuable possessions and left the intricately carved pillars and the lush, green grass of his family’s mansion for the stuffy world of academia--not, of course, that Shisui has been counting. 

The oddest sensation claims Shisui’s heart as Itachi exits the chauffeur’s sleek black car with boneless grace. Dark sunglasses cover much of the man’s face and the taut line of his lips certainly give nothing of his current thoughts away. He doesn’t look terribly different from the last time Shisui saw him, back when Itachi bade him farewell before leaving for his studies. Perhaps he looks older, sharper, with his more prominent cheekbones and taller yet still slender frame. But to Shisui little has changed about his former friend, as Uchiha Itachi looks just as untouchable and picturesque now as he does in Shisui’s haziest and most cherished memories. 

Truth be told, it's unfair of Itachi to appear at this exact moment. It’s just Shisui’s luck that the man would grace the property with his flawless presence while Shisui is covered in layers of sweat and dirt from hours of landscaping. That said, if Itachi has any thoughts on Shisui’s unkempt appearance he keeps them to himself. In fact, if has any thoughts at all regarding Shisui he keeps those to himself as well, choosing to brush past Shisui and enter the house without a single word. 

Scoffing, Shisui drives his shovel into the ground once more, ignoring the way the dismissal burns in his chest as the sound of the front door closing fills his mind. _I missed you, too_ , he thinks, angrily, before losing himself in the motions of his work once more. 

*

In hindsight, it had taken Shisui a shamefully long time to realize the difference between Itachi and himself. As children they had been raised together, studied under the same tutors and played together without a care in the world. Shisui’s parents were good people, almost universally perceived as reliable and solid, and for their hard work their employer, Uchiha Fugaku, had repaid them by treating their only son as one of his own. Thus, back then it didn’t occur to Shisui to find it strange how he spent his days running through the sprawlings hallways of the newly-constructed Uchiha manor yet was sent back to his family’s small cottage, hidden on the very edge of the property, at night. Back then all that mattered were the afternoons spent in Itachi’s quarters, so much larger than Shisui’s own, listening with an unending, youthful adoration as Itachi read alone from one of his many antique books while Shisui's parents put their blood, sweat, and tears into his companion's wealthy household. 

But as he grew older the cracks in Shisui’s idealistic worldview began to show themselves. To be honest he’s not sure exactly where or when it truly began. Perhaps it started when, in his fifteenth year, his father was caught stealing trinkets from the estate and pawning them off in the city, causing the man to be shipped off to prison in a rather unceremonious fashion. Or perhaps it was when Shisui truly understood the line that divided Itachi and himself, the enormous disparity in wealth and class that kept them from standing beside one another. It was that knowledge that pushed Shisui to reject Fugaku’s offer to pay for him to receive a higher education, despite his mother’s disappointment and Itachi’s disapproval, because the last thing he wanted was a rich man’s pity-filled charity. Shisui knew what he was and where he belonged in this world; there was no need to embarrass himself by aspiring for more than just a simple little house on the edge of a great big world. 

With that in mind, he had worked to create distance between Itachi and himself. It was a task that was easier than he would have hoped, as the years had widened the once-nonexistent gap between them. For much of their lives they had functioned like a single unit, one boy never found too far from the other. But as they had grown from children into young men an odd tension crept into their relationship, fostered by too-long looks and a suddenly unbearable closeness. This was yet another thing Shisui rejected, another desire he placed high upon a shelf never to be touched again. And it was the reason why Shisui had so forcefully pushed for Itachi to leave the secluded eden of their childhood to study in a faraway city. 

Shisui remembers, with a terrible vividness, the day Itachi left. He can recall with perfect clarity the dark storm clouds in the sky that were almost laughably appropriate and Itachi’s red-rimmed eyes as he sped away, gone from Shisui’s life but most certainly not forgotten. The memory has haunted him for over half a decade, tormented him in quiet moments and black nights, yet in a heartbeat suddenly it means nothing. Suddenly, in a streak of sunlight and humid air, Itachi has been returned to him. Yet after years of craving the sight of him Shisui can’t bring himself to look at the man, a favor Itachi seems all too willing to repay. 

Perhaps, after his previously cold and callous behavior, this is what Shisui deserves. He supposes it’s only fitting to be the object of Itachi’s disinterest, given he had engineered their lives to produce exactly this result. But the treatment still stings, wounds Shisui in a way he can’t--or, more appropriately, _won’t_ \--articulate, to Itachi or even himself. And so they linger in an uncomfortable limbo, passing by each other day after day as Shisui goes about his business without speaking a single word to one another. It’s a particular kind of hell on Earth to have Itachi so close once again, yet impossibly far from Shisui’s reach at the same time. But he endures it, just as endures every other indignity in his life, because the idea of doing anything else is simply unthinkable. After all, he learned many years ago he would never be blessed enough to possess the things he truly yearned for this life. And there is no force in the world he has pined for with the wild hunger he feels for Itachi, though he’d almost certainly die before ever confessing such a thing to his former friend. 

Of course, at this rate he will most likely pass away before they even say a single word at all to one another. 

*

“Are you and Itachi still friends?” Sasuke, the second young master of the house, asks Shisui on a blistering afternoon roughly three weeks after Itachi’s return. Having lost the most precious person in his life in a dreadfully unceremonious fashion, Sasuke had switched his starry-eyed admiration from Itachi to Shisui with a speedy dedication only a child could muster up. In the years since Itachi became nothing more than a collection of letters from a faraway land to his younger brother, Sasuke has spent much of his time stuck to Shisui like glue, following the man as he goes about his days in the service of the Uchiha clan's bottom line. Most days, Shisui doesn't mind the boy's company, often welcomes it during long and lonely days of hard work and troubling thoughts.

Today, however, is not one of those days. 

The question causes Shisui to lose his grip on his gardening sheers and pierce himself on one of the Uchiha’s many prized rose bushes. Biting back a curse, Shisui pulls a handkerchief from the back pocket of his trousers and wraps it around his steadily bleeding palm. “‘Course we are,” he replies belatedly, tone hoarse despite his efforts, before offering Sasuke a practiced grin. “Why would you ask?”

Blissfully unaware of the disaster he's unintentionally wrought, Sasuke shrugs, a risky move considering how precariously he’s balanced on the narrow stone fence wrapping around his family’s sizable estate. Blessedly the boy doesn’t tumble and injure himself, as Shisui can only imagine how well such an occurrence would reflect upon him, and continues, “I don’t know. I suppose it just seemed like you two weren’t talking as much as you used to. Is he angry with you?”

“I reckon you’d have to ask your brother that,” Shisui tells him, wincing as he lifts the faded yellow cloth to inspect the damage beneath it. The wound isn’t deep enough to scar, but will no doubt cause Shisui problems for the foreseeable future. He certainly won’t be of any use to Fugaku in such a state, he thinks darkly, as he flexes his fingers experimentally. 

“What exactly is my brother to ask me?” A voice calls out, and both Shisui and Sasuke turn to watch as Itachi walks towards them. He looks annoyingly, effortlessly handsome with his light cotton shirt rolled up to his elbows and the golden, circular glasses that frame his eyes. Frowning as he takes in the sight before him, he turns to Sasuke and says, “Sasuke, you shouldn’t bother Shisui while he’s at work.”

“I’m not!” Sasuke insists, petulant in the way only a young child can sound, and Itachi clicks his tongue in disagreement.

“You are,” he counters, but changing the subject entirely. “Father has been looking for you. He says it’s time to return to the house and focus on your studies.”

“But--” Sasuke begins in objection, and Itachi squares his shoulders, no doubt preparing yet another long-winded elder brother lecture on respect and personal responsibility. 

Shisui, having spent much of his life privy to such debates between the two siblings, knows precisely how this will turn out. “Sasuke, listen to your brother,” he instructs sternly. “We’ll talk another day.”

Puffing his cheeks out in youthful rebellion, Sasuke wordlessly hops off the fence and stomps back to the manor, kicking up dirt and grass as he goes. Amusement pulls at Shisui’s lips, though his good humor quickly dissipates the moment he catches sight of the irritation spreading across Itachi’s face. 

“Oddly enough I do not require your assistance in disciplining my brother,” the man informs him, and Shisui cannot hold back a scoff at that statement.

“Forgive me for trying to help you win a no-doubt losing battle,” he replies thinly, presses the cotton to his still sluggishly bleeding hand once more. 

The gesture is regrettably movement enough to catch Itachi’s attention. Concern fills his gaze as he asks, “How did this happen?”

Smiling unkindly, Shisui answers, “Merely a simple workplace injury--no more, no less. If you’re worried I plan on suing you and your bloodline for compensation, rest assured I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” 

The words come out harsher than he intends, a long-buried bitterness bubbling to the surface in a hot rush. But if the reply causes Itachi any flavor of pain he keeps that to himself as well as he does the rest of his secrets. In fact, he says nothing in response, choosing instead to react by suddenly grabbing Shisui by the wrist and dragging him towards the place that Shisui calls home despite his many protests. 

With his mother still hard at work scrubbing the pristine floors of the Uchiha mansion, the cabin is mercifully empty when Itachi and Shisui enter it. The walk to his tiny home had been filled with the sound of Shisui’s complaints and Itachi’s eerie yet determined silence, a trend that continues as Itachi all but shoves him into a kitchen chair before rummaging through the house in search of medical supplies.

“This level of overdramatics is highly unnecessary,” Shisui calls out, chest absurdly tight at the image of Itachi once again inside this house after years of absence. He hopes he’s doing a better job than he believes of hiding the naked longing he can feel enter his features as Itachi returns to him with a first aid kit in hand.

“So you have said,” Itachi replies evenly. “Repeatedly, in fact.” 

“And yet here you are.”

“Yet here I am.” 

Sensing any further arguments will inevitably be rendered null and void, Shisui finally surrenders to the inevitable. When Itachi handles him his touch is unspeakably gentle, tending to his injuries with a kindness Shisui feels wholly unworthy. The intense focus of Itachi’s gaze, so often reserved for his schoolwork or his brother, shifts to Shisui’s wounded palm, and after years of neglect submitting himself to such attention once more all but steals the breath from Shisui’s lungs. He runs his eyes over the dark sweep of Itachi’s long lashes, becomes so absorbed in the fantasy of tasting the sweat that traces the curve of Itachi’s pale throat, he hardly notices the stinging pain of disinfectant on his skin. Itachi’s work is quick and efficient--as expected of the perfect Uchiha heir--meaning it’s not long before he’s pulling away from Shisui, leaving only a soft cotton bandage and the rapidly cooling heat of his touch in his wake. 

Silence, thick and awkward, settles between them. Were Shisui a better man, thoughtful in the way his mother had tried to raise him, he would give Itachi his thanks or offer him a cup of tea for his troubles. But Shisui does neither, choosing instead to stare at Itachi as the tension threatens to swallow them both alive.

Itachi, ever the articulate one, finally breaks the hellish quiet by saying, “You never welcomed me home.”

“I suppose I sensed that the sentiment would not mean much were it to come from me,” Shisui offers, and Itachi’s mouth tenses in response.

“How uncharacteristically foolish of you,” Itachi replies in a bruised little voice, looking younger than his twenty-five years as he meets Shisui’s gaze. 

Swallowing thickly, Shisui counters, “Perhaps you think too highly of me.” 

“Never,” he murmurs, just a wisp of a word barely spoken into the afternoon, but it rings so clearly inside Shisui’s mind that it almost hurts. 

“Are you happy, then?” Shisui asks, to distract them both from the intimacy they’re so unsteadily dancing around. “To return to the comfort of your childhood home?” Feverishly he wonders if Itachi understands the true question Shisui has posed: _are you happy to return to me?_

Time and time again he’s held back the ponderings he’s so desperately wished to ask Itachi. _Have you missed me the way I have missed you? Did I cross your mind in the terrible time we’ve spent apart, during long nights with your cock in hand? Do you long for my touch the way that I wish to lay my hands upon you and hold you until you can never wash the memory of me from your body?_ But each time the words bubble to the surface Shisui denies them, suppresses them with a ferocity so powerful it leaves him entirely speechless. And so Shisui finds himself without a single thing to say Itachi, not even when he wants to give his friend the world. 

“It was inevitable,” Itachi answers simply, the taut muscles of jaw working as elaborates, “Father informed me of my place in this world at a very early age; I’ve always been keenly aware of the duties that awaited me once I came of age.”

“You make it sound as if you’re his well-trained pet rather than his beloved son.”

“Is there a difference?” Itachi counters, and to that Shisui has no reply. Idly he wonders if it’s some twisted privilege to exist as he does, without a name to carry and expectations to fulfil. In this one aspect he doesn’t envy the man who sits across from him, with his shoulders sloping under the weight of untold years’ worth of fame and fortune. 

“I’m afraid I’m not the man to whom you should pose such questions, given my station.”

“That would imply I have an endless supply of confidants in this world.” It’s the first time Shisui has heard even a shade of anger to Itachi’s normally mild-mannered cadence, and the sound shakes loose something deep within his chest. That feel of breaking free, akin to splintering apart only spikes, as Itachi averts his gaze and softly confesses, “I wrote to you, when I was… Many times, I wrote to you.”

It’s almost cruelly amusing how unnecessary the whispered admission is to Shisui. He’s well aware of the many letters Itachi has sent him in the time that’s passed between their last meeting and the current moment. While he’ll certainly never admit it to Itachi, would rather not even admit it to himself, he held each soft piece of parchment in his hands and memorized every word, reading them over and over again until he could recite the contents even in death. To this day he keeps an ancient shoebox beneath his cot containing every letter Itachi composed for him, beloved torture devices he’ll relive during the long nights where he allows himself to truly feel the heart he locked away years ago. “You did,” he finally says, in lieu of allowing a shred of vulnerability to slip past his lips. 

The casual tone of Shisui’s voice causes Itachi to lift his head in a snap, eyes bright with a buried emotion rapidly burning to the surface. “Shisui,” Itachi all but chokes out, and the air catches in Shisui’s lungs as Itachi asks him, “We were friends once, were we not?”

Shisui forces himself to look away in order to speak the answer he knows he must give. With his eyes locked onto the kitchen window’s curtains, soft lace fluttering in the summer breeze, he tells Itachi, “We were, once. But the years have changed us; you have your place as I have mine. And I believe it’s time to return to where you belong.” 

Itachi recoils as if Shisui has stricken him. Perhaps it would have been more merciful to take such an action, to lash out at the man with his fists rather than his feigned disinterest. But the effect takes hold regardless, as in seconds Itachi is rising from his seat, the sound of wooden chair legs dragging across the floor agonizing in the fraught silence, and storms out of the cabin. 

Deep down, Shisui knows that such distance, such spite, is all in service of the great good. It’s just that in the current moment, where Itachi’s absence aches like the slice in his palm, such rationality is shockingly hard to hold onto. 

* 

Like a phantom or a fairytale monster, after their confrontation Itachi all but vanishes, leaving nothing but a residue of his presence behind. 

Objectively, Shisui is certain that Itachi has not fled the estate like a tear-streaked maiden, is positive that the man remains within the confines of his gilded cage. It’s just that he’s suddenly developed a new and mysterious ability to find himself in all the places Shisui isn’t and none of the places where he is. On a very lucky (or perhaps extraordinarily unlucky) day he may catch a glimpse of the young heir: a vision of him in a window, resting high above Shisui, or maybe a brush of shoulders as they go through the motions of the daily routines. But each and every time Itachi turns his face from him as if Shisui’s very existence offends him. It shouldn’t bother Shisui, as this is exactly the turn of events he had been hoping for since the moment Itachi arrived back on the property. Yet it aches regardless, just like the fragile, mending tissue along the curve of his palm. 

The issue festers for weeks, sits tense inside his muscles and rattles through his veins before coming to a brutal head. On the hottest day of the year thus far Itachi appears at Shisui’s doorstep like a fever and declares, “My brother is missing.” 

Shisui raises his eyebrows, as the pronouncement is about the last thing he’s expecting to fall from Itachi’s lips. “‘Missing?’” he repeats, slow and doubtful. “Are you certain it’s not just a bit of childish fun gone awry?”

“Sasuke is smart enough not to wander far from his keepers’ prying eyes. I suppose you could say he knows his place,” he adds, coldly, and the statement lands like a kick in the stomach.

Favoring Itachi with a lovely yet empty smile, he replies, “I am nothing if not the Uchiha family’s loyal yet humble servant,” before stepping away to tug on his boots. 

On any other occasion Shisui would find it amusing how, even on his only day off this week, his employer’s problems somehow manage to find him. But today is a day too hot for such thoughts, or really any thoughts at all. The search for the missing young lord is a brutal one, akin to walking through a thick wall of fabric as they bake under the summer sun. In minutes Shisui’s undershirt and loose-fitting slacks stick to his frame, and with his expensive linens Itachi is faring no better. 

Shisui keeps his focus on the clutches of ancient trees and high, whispery grass around them to avoid drifting towards the sight of Itachi’s short-cropped hair matted to his skull or the suggestion of his collarbone against his light-colored clothes. He remembers, with a deep unpleasantry, when Itachi had sheared his long, ink-colored hair in favor of adopting the more modern, more professional fashion his father had insisted upon despite Itachi’s own love of his former style. But Itachi had caved in that moment, his iron will broken by the pressure of his father’s exacting expectations, just as he had given in so many times before. The only difference was that as the long layers of black fell at his feet the day before he left the university, Itachi did not weep or even bristle. That time, Itachi had greeted the event with a hollow resignation that twists Shisui’s gut to this very day. 

The sound of thrashing water and a panicky voice rips Shisui from his thoughts, and in seconds both he and Itachi are racing towards the locus of chaos. As the forest gives way to the edge of a vast river the sight of Sasuke, bobbing along and sinking under the waves greets them, his small body fighting against the water’s power. Without thinking Shisui kicks off his shoes and his slacks in a rush before diving into the lake. It greets him like a sledgehammer, the still water slamming against his body, but Shisui pushes on, cutting through the deep in a single-minded quest. He’s a decent swimmer, has been ever since boyhood, and the turbulence is no match for his purposeful strokes. In what feels like the blink of an eye, time flowing uneasily in the face of his fear, he snatches Sasuke’s small frame in his arms and drags him back to the shore, gasping for breath as he lands on the filthy ground. 

Vaguely he’s aware of the way Itachi calls for his brother, the words high and reedy with fear. Sasuke lays beside Shisui, watching him with wide, dark eyes, before he marvels, “You saved me. I didn’t think you would come for me.”

“What does that mean?” Shisui asks, coughing the question up along with a lungful of water as he presses his palm to his heaving stomach. 

“You’ve been so angry with me lately, and with Itachi. I thought you wouldn’t care if I died,” Sasuke explains, his logic so sound yet so baffling in only the way a young child’s can be, and the fine sinew of Shisui’s temper snaps.

With anger and worry forming a vicious cocktail in his mind, he takes Sasuke’s tiny shoulders in his hands and shakes the boy as he snarls, “You stupid child! Do you have any idea what you could have done? And for, what? A foolish test of affections?” 

“I’m sorry!” Sasuke cries, tears rapidly filling his large, black eyes, crumpling in the face of Shisui’s fury. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think--”

“That’s enough,” Itachi cuts in harshly, appearing at his brother’s side. Placing one hand on Shisui’s chest, he shoves him away with unexpected strength, sending Shisui all but stumbling backwards. His eyes never leaving Shisui’s face, he orders, “Sasuke, you will return home at once. We’ll discuss this matter with Father and Mother later.” 

Sasuke nods just once, the motion jerky, before dashing off into the woods and leaving a minefield in his wake. Itachi glares at Shisui, his features composed in a mask of icy rage, as he says, “There was no reason for you to speak to him like that.”

Bewildered, Shisui can’t help but laugh. “‘No reason,’ hmm?” he prods, just this side of vicious. “He could have died because of such a stupid shenangian!” 

“Believe me when I say I’m well aware of that,” Itachi snaps, “but raising your voice is helping no one.”

“Of course it isn't,” Shisui counters hotly, “because it isn’t proper, right? Because people like you are allowed to act however you please while people like me pay the price for it!” 

In a heartbeat Itachi’s expression cracks open, confused and oddly vulnerable. “What are you trying to say?” 

“Nothing,” Shisui denies immediately, embarrassment at his outburst quickly taking the place of his indignation. It occurs to him, in a mortifying rush, how he must look right now, soaking wet and screaming at his employer’s beautiful son while wearing nothing but his undergarments. 

His current state must occur to Itachi in that instant as well, as his attention seems to shift from his anger to something… _else_. As children they often saw each other in such states, swam together and bathed together in equal measures. But they have not been children in a very long time, and it’s clear to Shisui that the time of innocent comfort in one another’s company has almost certainly passed. 

It feels like being devoured, the way Itachi watches him now, with his lips slightly parted and his eyes searching and scorching, and Shisui loves and loathes the sensation in equal measure. Itachi’s gaze is a physical thing as it traces the curve of his shoulders, broad from years of hard labor, and dips along the sharp edge of his hip bone, and Shisui takes it all. He stands still, like a cornered animal frightfully aware that it’s being hunted. The only difference is that Shisui can’t bring himself to mind being the object of Itachi’s pursuit, would gladly welcome the bullet if it meant he could get a single taste of something greater. 

With the knowledge they’re dancing on an incredibly dangerous precipe at the forefront of his mind, Shisui tears himself away from the sight of Itachi’s rapidly coloring cheeks, darkening in a fashion that has nothing to do with the weather, and moves to regain his composure. Without coordination he pulls on his trousers, ignoring the discomfort it creates when they cling to his damp clothes, and slips on his boots without bothering to lace them. All the while Itachi doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, not even when Shisui all but shoves him in the process of returning the way he came. It haunts Shisui for the rest of the day: Itachi’s gaze, his silence, and the possibility of what might have come next, if only Shisui had allowed it. 

*

In the face of stunning humiliation and the charged atmosphere it inspired, Shisui doubles down on his efforts to be as respectful, professional, and, above all, absent from the Uchiha family heirs as possible. 

Truthfully, his timing couldn’t be any better, as forces much more important than himself have decided to descend upon the Uchiha clan. Mere days after Shisui’s fear-induced lunacy his mother informs him that one of the many distant relatives of the family, this time a well-mannered and even more well-connected relative from the city, has decided to spend a few sun-drenched weeks in the lap of secluded luxury. By all accounts Uchiha Obito is everything a man like Fugaku, pragmatic and methodical, would hope to host: he’s intelligent and successful, having managed to spin the handful of gold he received from his family into an unfathomable fortune courtesy of his textile factories. According to the waitstaff--an untapped fountain of valuable intel were one smart enough to tap into it--Obito had more on his mind than languid days by the beach and an endless supply of stiff drinks; the rumor was that he had his eyes on recruiting Itachi, brilliant and diligent, to his company, an opportunity Fugaku would no doubt weasel his eldest son into accepting. 

Though he knows, in the deepest depths of his heart, that frankly it’s none of his business what Itachi chooses to do with his life, the thought of Itachi vanishing once more still sickens Shisui regardless. Perhaps it’s this lingering sensation, like a sour taste in his mouth he can’t seem to scrub away, that pushes Shisui to be a bigger man and clear the air. True, he has promised himself to stay away from both of the Uchiha sons, and he intends to make good on that vow as the summer days wear on. But it seems unfair to end a decades-long relationship with Itachi so harshly, without answer or meaning, and for the first time Shisui allows himself to imagine their current predicament from his friend’s perspective: how wounding and confusing it must have felt to reach for Shisui and find their gentle intimacy slipping through his fingers like sand; Shisui’s perplexing and unpredictable behavior, a madness that only made sense to Shisui himself. With that vision in his mind, it doesn’t feel right to deny Itachi the truth, even if Shisui can only resolve himself to provide the barest trappings of earnesty. 

So, resolving himself to do as right by Itachi as he’s able, Shisui settles himself in front of his mother’s ancient typewriter and begins to compose a letter. It’s only right, he thinks, to bare himself this way; after the reams and reams of papers Itachi once sent to him, it’s fitting to finally receive a reply, belated and inadequate though it will most likely be. Shisui’s never been all that skilled at expressing himself with his words, more often trafficking in the language of twisted features and double entendres. He can only hope that this time, when it’s more important to be precise, the intensity of his sentiment isn’t buried too far between the lines. 

Of course, such a feat is much easier said than done. Hours after Shisui first began this quest he finds himself no closer to success, the only fruit of his labor a pile of crumpled up drafts scattered around his chair and an ashtray full of cigarettes smoked down to the filter. Each attempt feels incomplete, insincere, a waste of time and effort unworthy of being witnessed by Itachi, and the more Shisui types the larger the yawning pit in his gut grows. 

There’s simply no way for Shisui to express the sentiment he truly feels, no acceptable fashion for him to confess the actual reason he has turned his face away from Itachi’s warmth. And yet, though his desires should never be revealed in the harsh light of day, should remain prisoner to his nighttime fantasies and weakness, suddenly Shisui finds himself recording them regardless. As if in a frenzy, he reveals the truth he’s hidden for so long his secret feels like the very soul of him, typing like a man possessed by the sheer strength of his longing. 

_In my dreams you come to me and offer me every piece of yourself, reveling in my desperate hunger for you_ , he writes, chest tightening as he feverishly continues, _You beg me to take you, to taste you, and I’m all too happy to oblige. I’d spend hours on top of you, inside of you, wrapped around you if only you’d be merciful enough to allow me the pleasure of your body. In my dreams we belong to each other._

The words stare back at him, a bold, incriminating black against the white parchment, but despite his shame Shisui can’t bring himself to forsake them. It feels almost freeing, like jumping from a vast height, to be rid of such heinous desire. Plucking the letter from the typewriter’s gut, he holds it in his hands as if it’s a precious gem, reading and re-reading its contents before carefully folding it and setting it aside. For some inexplicable reason he can’t bring himself to part with the confession even though it would no doubt be the key to his downfall. And so he lets it remain at his side, like a pet or an old friend, as he creates a much more appropriate response to his beloved friend. This letter, all noble apologies and opining on aristocracy, is far closer to what he actually wishes to express to Itachi, even though it’s nowhere near as honest. 

In a stroke of fortunate timing, a knock at his door finds Shisui just as he’s putting the finishing touches on his real note. Before greeting his visitor he folds the letter like the one before it and places it next to his typewriter, his satisfaction with its contents leaving him in a positive enough mood to hum a tune as he descends the staircase and opens his front door. 

Of all the people he is expecting to see on the other side, Sasuke’s small face, shifty with guilt and anxiety, is not one of them. “Hello, Shisui,” he greets him morosely, his voice sad and tiny, and Shisui offers him a kind smile in return.

“Hello, Sasuke.” In the days since the incident by the river his anger has relaxed into an annoyance summoned up exclusively by concern. While it was a cruel trick for the boy to play it was just as unfair of Shisui to lose his temper so spectacularly, perhaps even more so given he was far older than Sasuke’s ten years of age. “What can I do for you?”

“Brother has asked me to apologize to you,” Sasuke mutters, his eyes trained on his feet. 

“Ah,” Shisui hums knowingly, unable to fight the smile slowly spreading across his face. “And would _you_ like to apologize to me?”

Sasuke nods, the motion quick and jerky. “I’m sorry for worrying you, Shisui.” 

“And I’m sorry for raising my voice at you,” Shisui offers, and Sasuke stares at him in childish wonder. “I suppose we’re even now. Though, actually…” Shisui trails off thoughtfully, before kneeling to bring himself to Sasuke’s level and asking, in a conspiratorial whisper, “How would you like to do me a favor? It’ll be just our secret.” 

In seconds Sasuke brightens, his eyes wide with a youthful glee. “Sure.”

Grinning, Shisui replies, “Wait here.”

While the cowardice of having a child play mailman for him most likely negates the sentiment of his letter, Shisui can’t bear to bring himself to deliver the note himself. The very thought of looking into Itachi’s eyes as hands over proof of his obsessive dwelling on their friendship is unthinkable, even though Shisui went to great lengths to arrange his words in the most chaste and platonic fashion. That in mind, he does not feel a terrible amount of remorse as he slips the envelope in Sasuke’s hand after retrieving it from his desk and says, “I need you to give this to your brother for me, but you’ll have to promise me not to read it.”

“I promise.”

The look Shisui gives him is critical, almost comically serious. “You swear it?”

“I swear it!” Sasuke insists, and Shisui chuckles.

“You’re a good kid,” he tells the boy as he ruffles his eternally messy hair, laughing openly at the way Sasuke bristles at the gesture. “Now you run on home, alright?” 

“Okay,” Sasuke agrees cheerfully. “See you later, Shisui!” With a wave he jogs off towards the house, and Shisui’s in a good enough mood to return the gesture before Sasuke disappears entirely.

That pleased satisfaction lasts for only a handful of seconds, until a thought suddenly and horrifically enters Shisui’s mind: _how sure am I that I gave Sasuke the right letter?_

Moving at a speed he previously believed mankind was incapable of, Shisui races up his stairs and towards his bedroom, tripping over his feet in a mad dash to reach his desk. With his heart violently slamming against his ribcage, Shisui reaches for the paper resting beside his typewriter and unfolds it so quickly he nearly tears it in half. To his horror, the words that greet him are long, verbose, clinical--and most certainly should be in Sasuke’s possession in this very moment. 

With his life flashing before his eyes, Shisui opens his bedroom window and screams, at the absolute top of his lungs, “ _Sasuke_!” 

But as always, it’s simply too little, too late. 

*

Once the jittery, all-encompassing panic has passed, Shisui collapses onto his bedroom floor and considers how the rest of his life will play out.

The best case scenario, he decides quickly, is that Itachi will be rightly disgusted by the filth presented to him courtesy of his beloved brother. He will look upon Shisui with no affection in his eyes, will offer only hatred and betrayal should Shisui be foolish enough to beg for his forgiveness. But he will keep the indiscretion to himself on the promise that Shisui stays away from him and his family, swearing to live the rest of his life miles and miles away from Itachi’s own. In the best case scenario, Itachi is too kind to ruin him. 

The worst case scenario, the one that sends cold fear racing through every part of Shisui’s body, is that Itachi shares the carnality with his father or some other authority figure. Shisui’s all too aware of what can happen to men like him, creatures who transgress the laws of polite society and forsake moral purity in the quest of seeking comfort in one another. With his low standing in their world his word against Itachi’s--the denials of a poor landscaper contrasted against the insistence of a wealthy future businessman--would be meaningless. And if he was very lucky Shisui would get to spend the rest of his life in jail, beaten and mocked for his unnatural proclivity. 

Shisui doesn’t want to imagine that Itachi could turn from him so cruelly, but adversity is the true test of a good man’s character. The sad fact is that Shisui may have no idea what kind of person Itachi actually is, though he’s sure to discover it very shortly. 

Less than a day after Shisui may or may not have signed his own death sentence, his mother returns home in an excited flutter. A lavish dinner has been planned to welcome Uchiha Obito to the mansion, and Lady Mikoto has been kind enough to invite both mother and son to the gathering. 

“It’s going to be lovely,” his mother insists dreamily, seemingly oblivious to her son’s inner turmoil, as she prepares dinner. 

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to attend,” Shisui replies, eyes locked onto the plates he’s setting on their kitchen table to avoid his mother’s gaze.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she chides. “You’ll come and you’ll enjoy yourself. It will be a nice opportunity to spend some time with Itachi. You two were always so close as children; there’s no reason you can’t maintain your friendship now that you’re both adults.”

“Right,” Shisui agrees, all but choking on the word, and that appears to be the end of that. 

The following day he finds himself walking the winding path that leads from his home to Itachi’s own, trapped in a suit that itches against his skin and filled with an unconquerable anxiety. His mother had left earlier in the day to help the cooks with preparations, too kind and hardworking for her own good as always, leaving Shisui with only his frantic thoughts to keep him company. Standing on the step of the Uchiha home’s massive front door, he stews in his worries for mere seconds before the entrance opens to him and the sight of Itachi swallows his vision whole. 

For a moment each of his fears is banished as he drinks in Itachi standing before him, with his hair carefully slicked back and his body draped in expensive, jewel-toned silks. But it isn’t long before the reality of their situation creeps back into his mind and he forces himself to look away. Clearing his tight throat, Shisui rather foolishly says, “Hi.” 

Itachi says nothing, preferring to stare back at Shisui in complete silence, and anxiety pricks at Shisui’s nerves once more. The man’s face offers him no clue to his current thoughts or what he intends to do about the predicament they’ve found themselves in. His inner narrative only slips further from Shisui’s fingers as without a word he turns on his heel and walks away. Not knowing what else to do, Shisui shuts the front door before following him, chasing after Itachi as he marches through the long, winding halls of his family home before sweeping into his bedroom and slamming the door once they’re inside. The pursuit feels endless, but after it concludes suddenly it’s just the two of them, locked inside Itachi’s personal quarters with only each other for company.

Exhaling harshly, Itachi finally breaks his self-imposed silence. “How could you give such a thing to Sasuke?” he all but demands, tone low and furious. 

“Believe me when I say it wasn’t my intention,” Shisui defends, but the words only earn him a scoff in return.

“Oh, so you mean to tell me you merely accidentally handed my brother a pornographic letter?”

“Yes!” Taking a risk, Shisui dares to step closer to Itachi, and is relieved when the man does not shrink from him. “I was trying to give him an entirely different note. You were never supposed to see that, _ever_.” 

“Did you not mean it, then?” The question takes Shisui entirely by surprise, and he stares at Itachi in shock as he continues, “What you wrote… Did you not mean to say such things about me?”

Shisui opens his mouth, yet not a single sound comes out of it. It hits him what a perfect opportunity he’s been presented with to save himself and to spare Itachi the discomfort of his desire for him. He could play it off as a joke, odd and misguided, or even claim it was meant for a wholly different person. In the time since Itachi left Shisui’s had more than a few dalliances, girls from town he’s flattered and abandoned when he remembered they could never be the person he truly wanted. Hell, he’d even had a man or two when he’d been heartsick enough to act out with such reckless abandon. He could wash all this away, lie his way out of their current crisis, and Itachi would never be the wiser.

Instead Shisui says, “I meant every word,” and waits for the earth to collapse all around him. 

Somehow, no such thing happens. An unseen force does not strike Shisui dead for his confession, and the floor does not crumble beneath him, sending him into an eternal freefall. What happens is this: Itachi inhales deeply, seeming to quietly gather his courage, before walking to his large, open windows and pulling the curtains closed to wrap the bedroom in a sudden darkness. With his heart in his throat, Shisui watches as Itachi lights a handful of candles, providing only the slimmest illumination, before he asks, so softly Shisui barely hears him speaking, “Was it all talk or do you intend on following through with your plan to ravish me?” 

His heartbeat pounding between his ears, Shisui stupidly retorts, “I beg your pardon?” 

At that Itachi actually has the nerve to smirk, the gesture so out of place on his typically somber face. “Forgive me, I was under the impression you wished I would offer myself to you.” 

“That’s--” Shisui trails off, trying to ignore the way his skin warms at even the suggestion inside Itachi’s words. “You don’t know what it is you’re trying to give away.” 

The humor in Itachi’s expression falls rather rapidly, softens into something sweeter and far more dangerous. “Is that what you think?” he counters before approaching Shisui once more. This time the way he walks is slow, yet purposeful, and again Shisui is reminded of the feeling of being hunted. Itachi comes to a halt just outside of Shisui’s reach, which is probably for the best given the matter they’re currently debating. “Shisui, I’m neither so sheltered nor so foolish that I don’t understand the risk we would be taking. I know what this could cost me, could cost both of us, should it get out. It’s just that I believe the reward of your company far outweighs my fears.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Shisui retorts almost instantly. “This wouldn’t be enough. How could it ever be?” He tries to picture what life would look like for them: cut off from the safety and security of his family, disowned for the whims of his heart, Itachi would no doubt grow to resent Shisui for inspiring such treachery in him. And Shisui would resent himself for stealing Itachi away from this life, like plucking a pearl from the ocean and selfishly claiming it as his own, and keeping him from becoming the person he was always meant to be. Whatever fondness that exists between them now would curdle like spoiled milk into disappointment and hatred, all because Shisui didn’t have the strength to turn from Itachi when he most needed to. “There’s nothing of value I could give you. And you deserve… Itachi, you deserve everything.” 

“Idiot,” Itachi chastises with aching affection, “I already _have_ everything. Let me share it with you.” 

With the defenses he’s spent years crafting falling like rain all around him, all Shisui’s left with is a single question, spoken whisper-quiet into the silence: “Why?” 

Itachi reaches for him, rests his palm along the curve of his cheek, and Shisui’s so terrified he’s dreaming he doesn’t dare lean into the touch. “I love you, Shisui,” Itachi admits, as if it’s truly that simple, that easy. As if it couldn’t cost them the world. “I always have.”

The confession blows away what remains of Shisui’s rationale, destroying his better instincts in one swift blow. After that, he can no longer deny Itachi anything of himself. 

Moving with unspeakable tenderness, Shisui turns and presses the lightest of kisses to Itachi’s outstretched palm, relishing in the gasp that escapes Itachi’s lips at the gesture. Having spent more time than he’d ever care to admit imagining what such a moment would be like, Shisui still finds himself woefully unprepared for the reality of holding Itachi in his arms. He hadn’t known if the first time they truly embraced each other would have been slow or fast, calculated or desperate. In the end, it ends up being very much the latter, as Itachi’s mouth crashes against his own in an uncharacteristically graceless display and Shisui groans before giving into him completely. 

When he’d pondered such a coupling in the past, a sentimental part of Shisui had foolishly hoped to take his time, to pull Itachi apart piece by trembling piece in just the way he’d described in that accursed letter. But if the frantic way Itachi grabs him, pulling at Shisui’s body as if he would perish should even the slightest of distance develop between their bodies, has Shisui suspecting the evening will play out in a very different manner. That’s alright, though; with any luck they’ll have plenty of chances to make up for lost time in their future.

For now, Shisui kisses Itachi back, all teeth and tongue and fierce desire, and savors the way the man melts against him. Far from being a delicate wallflower, Itachi matches Shisui’s hunger with one of his own, reaching for every piece of Shisui he can find--his shoulders, his back, his ass--with a near mindless desperation that’s utterly intoxicating. At one point his long fingers wind themselves into Shisui’s unkempt hair and _pull_ , and the mix of pleasure and pain shoots straight to his groin. Itachi even has the nerve to be smug, a wicked smile forming against Shisui’s lips, but the expression dissipates almost immediately when Shisui shifts their positions and spins them so he can shove Itachi against his bedroom door hard enough to make the man hiss in return.

Pulling himself away from the lure of Itachi’s mouth long enough to speak, he murmurs, the words dancing along the line of Itachi’s throat, “Is this you offering yourself to me?”

“Were you waiting for a written invitation?” Itachi counters lowly, somehow managing to sound haughty even as Shisui sucks a landscape of bruises beneath the safety of his dress shirt’s collar.

“Perhaps I was hoping you really would beg me after all,” he answers, and in response Itachi actually has the audacity to spread his legs in temptation.

Leaning up, he presses his lips very lightly to the shell of Shisui’s ear before whispering, shivery and wanton, “ _Please_ ,” and that’s all it takes. In seconds, Shisui works a hand between their bodies and wraps his hand around Itachi’s already-hard cock, palming him through the fabric of his pants. Itachi’s reaction is instantaneous, a loud moan that reverberates through the otherwise still and silent room before Itachi muffles the sound with his palm. 

With his free hand Shisui reaches for his wrist and pulls it away, revealing Itachi’s mouth, open and pink and swollen, all because of him. “Let me hear you,” he says, just this side of begging himself, and Itachi offers him an unsteady grin in return.

“Take me to bed and I just might,” he promises, which is enough motivation for Shisui to sweep Itachi into his arms and carry him across the room himself; perhaps the years he’s put into nourishing the Uchiha family garden have some value to him after all. 

Shisui lays Itachi upon his massive bed, carefully deposited on top of his immaculately-made sheets, and in seconds Itachi’s tugging off both his suit jacket and the pristine button down beneath it. Following his lead, Shisui tosses his own coat off but has no time to remove his shirt as in seconds Itachi is tugging Shisui on top of him. The memory of all the time he had spent in this bed during their boyhood, curled up with one another without a single care in the world, is enough to give Shisui pause in his mad quest to make Itachi his. The conflict must be clearly written on his face, as from beneath him Itachi offers a knowing look and reaches for him once more. “Come here,” he instructs gently, and Shisui, helpless and foolish, does exactly that. 

After that it all feels so terribly inevitable. As each second passes Shisui becomes more keenly aware of how reckless they’re being, how likely they are to be discovered, yet for the life of him he can’t make himself stop. If anything, the fear only serves to highlight the urgency of his need, and in minutes he’s unbuckling Itachi’s pants, fingers shaking through the motion, and sliding them down past his knees along with his undergarments. Itachi’s no blushing maiden, shy and ashamed of his nudity; if anything his gaze seems to draw Shisui in further, daring him to move closer, and his eyes only flutter closed as Shisui trails the pads of his fingers along the tender skin of his inner thigh. “Is this what they taught you in your expensive private university, then?” he asks, and the look Itachi pins him with nearly causes Shisui to stop breathing entirely.

“There was never anyone else,” Itachi tells him, without a drop of hesitation. “It was always you.”

“Good,” Shisui replies hoarsely, finally fully curling his fingers around Itachi’s exposed cock, and the combination of his touch and his possessiveness causes Itachi to whimper in pleasure. Without warning he begins to jerk Itachi off, his wrist moving at a punishing pace, and Itachi takes every movement Shisui gives him with startling obedience. 

Unable to hold back, Shisui leans closer to him and asks, “Did you think of me when you touched yourself like this? Did you wish it was me?” 

“Yes,” Itachi answers, wrapping a hand around Shisui’s neck and digging the blunt end of his fingernails into his skin. “ _Yes_.” 

“Tell me what you want,” Shisui says, and in seconds Itachi catches his wrist to halt his movements.

For a moment he’s worried he’s gone too far, wanted too much, and an apology immediately bubbles to the surface. Instead Itachi meets his gaze directly and all but orders, “There’s oil in the top drawer of my bedside table. Finish inside me.” 

“Spoiled,” Shisui chides in an effort to cover up the effect the words have had on him. But Itachi merely raises his chin defiantly, watching him with a knowing look, and it’s enough to have Shisui stripping off his pants as well. He’s far too worked up to do much more than pull them down low enough to free his own dick, which has been painfully hard for what feels like an eternity now, before following Itachi’s directions.

Inside the drawer rests a small glass jar, already opened and about halfway used, and Shisui lifts a brow in questioning. Rather than responding verbally, Itachi rolls on his stomach and once again spreads his legs to lure Shisui in. And Shisui, far, _far_ away from the world of rational thought, follows that promise like a moth to a flame. 

He’s not so distant from logic that he forgets that such matters require a certain delicacy. With this fact in mind, he covers his fingers in oil and very carefully inserts one inside Itachi. To his surprise, the area that greets him is clean and loose, and Itachi pushes back against him without an ounce of difficulty. “I take it you were planning to seduce me,” he says, adding a second finger once he’s sure it won't harm the man beneath him.

“Idiot,” Itachi repeats, his teasing tempered by the shuddering groan he releases as Shisui adds a third finger and starts fucking him in earnest. “I’ve been planning to seduce you since the moment I came back.” 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shisui hisses, suddenly overcome by both his lust and his annoyance at himself for being such a stubborn fool. 

“That’s the plan, yes,” Itachi replies, tone clipped, though all his arrogance leaves him in a shivery rush as Shisui removes himself from Itachi entirely. “Shisui--” Itachi protests, though Shisui silences him with the faintest kiss to the top of his spine.

“Relax,” Shisui reassures as he grabs Itachi by the hips and pulls him closer. “I’ve got you.” It’s about all the warning Itachi gets before Shisui enters him, carefully sliding himself into Itachi inch by agonizing inch as he watches the man’s hands clench in his pillow. Though it feels like a lifetime in actuality it’s probably mere seconds, precious though they may feel, before he’s fully settled, and silently Shisui marvels in the feeling of Itachi wrapped all around him.

Having spent much of his adult life and a shameful amount of his teenage years dreaming of such a moment, it’s overwhelming to find himself confronted by the reality of such fantasies. Breathing harshly through his nose in a useless attempt at steadying himself, Shisui takes in the world around him, collecting little details in case this somehow ends up being the only chance they get. He memorizes the scent of Itachi’s shampoo and the flickering candlelight that frames their bodies, drinks in the trembling, sweat-slick feeling of Itachi's skin and the racing beat of his heart as Shisui rests a palm over his chest. Itachi covers Shisui’s hand with one of his own, sweetly lacing their fingers together, before ordering him to move.

Shisui does not need to be told twice. 

He can tell by the taut pull of Itachi’s frame beneath him and the tension in his own muscles that neither one of them is destined to last particularly long. It’s probably for the best, as they’ve already spent far too much time locked inside the comfort of Itachi’s room peeling each other apart layer by forbidden layer. But as he drives his hips against Itachi’s own, meeting him thrust for thrust, he can’t help but wish this could last forever, that he could spend the rest of his life buried in the tight heat of Itachi’s body. 

The angle of one particular push hits Itachi just right, and the loud, high-pitched sound of his whine is startling in the empty room. Without thinking, Shisui slaps a hand over his mouth to silence him. In retaliation Itachi nearly bites him hard enough to draw blood, and Shisui nearly comes then and there. “I thought you wanted to hear me,” Itachi says, tone ragged, and Shisui groans at the way the words make him move that much faster.

“Time and place,” he grinds out, his control on the verge of snapping entirely, and Itachi seems to delight in pushing him over the edge. 

“I’m close,” Itachi warns, the wicked curve of his grin barely visible as he asks, “Should I ask your permission to finish?”

Shisui’s rhythm stutters at the question. “That filthy fucking mouth will be the death of me,” he proclaims, hardly menacing given the way the words shudder and whimper as they leave his lips. Instead of giving Itachi a moment to respond with another snarky, seemingly unaffected comment, Shisui reaches around and takes Itachi’s cock in his hand once more, jerking him off until he reaches his messy release, repeatinf Shisui’s name like a prayer as he comes. 

It isn’t long before Shisui follows him, shaking like a newborn calf and sinking his teeth into the meat of Itachi’s shoulder to muffle a moan of his own. As the euphoria of his orgasm fades and reality seeps back in, Shisui knows he should release Itachi and give them both a moment to at least try and freshen themselves up. There’s no telling how much time they’ve spent lost in one another, and when curious eyes will come in search of them. But try as he might, Shisui just can’t bear to let Itachi go; now that he finally has the man within reach, the absolute last thing he wishes is to set him free.

Fortunately, it would seem Itachi is of a similar mindset, content to linger in Shisui’s arms for as long as he’s able. Unfortunately, it would seem that Shisui’s fears were justified, as the moment their sweat and come begins to cool the heavy sound of footsteps reaches them, along with the reedy call of Sasuke’s voice, no doubt looking for his disappeared brother. 

“Shit,” Shisui hisses, untangling himself from Itachi in a fevered rush before moving to tug on his pants and crumpled, long since shedded jacket. Itachi’s actions are just as quick and even more jerky considering his soft, unsteady limbs. 

It’s a miracle that by the time Sasuke flings open Itachi’s bedroom door--which apparently Itachi forgot to _lock_ in his insane plot to get Shisui inside him--they’re even mildly presentable. As it stands any grown adult would know exactly what they had been up to; one look at their disheveled hair and flushed cheeks would make their most recent activities painfully clear. But Sasuke is young enough that while he may have his suspicions he can’t fully name or explain them, and he merely narrows his eyes at the sight of the two of them perched above Itachi’s twisted sheets, lingering in the intimate darkness. “How long have you been up here?” Sasuke demands with a pout. “I was looking all over for you-- _both_ of you,” he adds, giving Shisui a meaningful look, and Itachi sighs. 

“Sasuke, it isn’t polite to let yourself into people’s rooms,” he informs his brother, though the stern bent of his lecture is tempered by the abused rasp of his voice. 

“It’s not my fault you decided to go missing,” Sasuke points out primly. “What exactly were the two of you doing? You’d better not have been arguing again.”

“Something like that,” Shisui answers wryly, ignoring the baleful glare Itachi favors him with. Holding back a slightly hysterical smirk, he tells Sasuke, “I’m afraid your brother and I still have a few… issues that require discussion. Will you wait for us in the parlor room?”

“Fine,” Sasuke mutters, “but you had best not try to ditch me.”

“I wouldn’t even dream of it,” Shisui swears, which is enough of a promise to pacify the child. He offers the two men one last narrow-eyed glance before disappearing entirely, and it’s just as well considering the moment he’s gone Shisui releases the maniacal laughter he’s been swallowing since the boy’s arrival. 

“I am glad you find my brother’s impending trauma so hilarious,” Itachi intones dryly, and Shisui resists the impulse to roll his eyes.

“Implying you do not?” Despite his put-upon annoyance at Shisui’s outburst, it’s clear in the twist of Itachi’s mouth he feels equally amused. “Besides, I am fairly certain that at the end of the day you have only yourself to blame for our current circumstance.”

“Are you saying you regret it?” Something fragile paints itself across Itachi’s face, and a warmth as thick as the summer night curls itself around Shisui’s heart.

“Never,” he vows, bringing Itachi’s hand to his lips and smiling at the way Itachi shudders at his kiss.

“You know that this conversation isn’t over,” Itachi tells him, once the afterglow of their intimacy fully wears off. “We still have much to discuss and to plan.”

“Later,” Shisui says as he pulls Itachi to his feet. “For now, let’s direct our energies towards surviving your family’s dreadful dinner party.”

In that moment they both laugh, too drunk on the sweet wine of young love and tender touch to see the words for the omen they truly are. 

*

Were Shisui a wiser man, he would have considered how painfully uncomfortable it would be to find himself face-to-face with Uchiha Fugaku after deflowering the man’s prized heir.

Even as a boy, long before he became socially aware of the man’s flaws and particularly the power Fugaku held over him, Shisui had felt an unspeakable dread around the patron of the Uchiha clan. While Fugaku had always treated Shisui with a distant, almost cold type of kindness, as he grew Shisui became keenly aware of how both he and his friendship with Itachi were perceived and the delicate line of respect and fidelity he was forced to walk to keep his place in this home. Shisui had watched from the sidelines as Fugaku favored his children with verbose lectures on responsibility and unrelenting pragmatism, a loveless treatment that left both of his sons wanting. And he had certainly watched how Fugaku erased all evidence of Shisui’s father from the lives of those who cared for him and encouraged everyone to forget the man for the sake of the greater good. 

Despite himself, Shisui cannot help but feel a lick of fear against his skin as he sits across from Fugaku at the lavish dining table, avoiding his stoic black eyes as if they have the power to reveal him completely. 

Beside him, Itachi and his impeccable breeding are on full display as the dinner wears on. He looks perfectly at home in this world, entirely at ease as he's presented with beautifully crafted food on elegant china. For the sake of his own sanity Shisui tries his best not to look upon him too often lest the memory of their earlier encounter overtake him and shatter his composure. But it’s a fraught and slippery task, as even just a glimpse at Itachi from the corner of his vision is enough to cause heat to spread beneath his collar. 

If there’s any aspect of the evening that puts a damper on Shisui’s sexual frustration, it’s the appearance of Uchiha Obito. Though he’s spent his life lingering on the periphery of wealth, there’s something about the way Obito presents himself that Shisui finds exceptionally alienating. Everything about him, from his expensive pocket watch to his long-winded tales of luxury and travel, is flashy, seemingly designed to make others feel lesser, and despite his best attempts at keeping his head above the water Shisui would be lying if he claimed not to fall prey to such attacks. 

Blessedly much of the conversation is pomp and circumstance, rich person chatter about their vast business empire he can easily tune out. Certain threads occasionally catch Shisui’s attention, specifically those regarding the upcoming war with the west, and he tunes in purely to gather Obito’s insider knowledge on the conflict. Given that many of Obito’s factories lie within the Land of Wind, he’s been privy to the tides of war in a way that few men could hope to be. Having spent his life on the isolated outskirts of Konoha, so far from the bustling heart of the city itself, Shisui’s regrettably ignorant of the timeline of events that have led the Lands of Fire and Winds to such a dangerous point. So he listens, with a scholar’s curiosity, as Obito details the territory disputes and broken trade agreements that have caused long-simmering tensions to boil over.

At one point, Shisui foolishly decides to cross yet another boundary and dares to insert himself into the discussions of better men. The talk of Suna’s people as cruel and wild, like some unknowable other, causes him to frown and offer, “Perhaps it would be better not to stoke such sentiments amongst one another. To give into lesser emotions has the potential to lead to ruin for all parties involved.” 

Obito turns to look at him, his features a carefully composed mask of amusement and derison. “I wasn’t aware you had such expertise regarding cross-cultural relations.” 

“Perhaps that reflects more upon yourself than it does anyone else,” Itachi replies, sharp in a way Shisui’s never heard before, and a suffocating silence sweeps over the enormous dining room. (Well, a near-silence: from the other side of the table Sasuke giggles softly at the rebuke before his mother very fussily shushes him.)

Obito blinks, momentarily stunned, before an unfortunate grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. Shisui averts his gaze at the sight of it, knowing nothing good can follow such an expression, and is promptly proven right as Obito counters, “Forgive me for speaking out of turn. Given how Fugaku has spoken of you, I should have known better than to assume your ignorance.”

“No apologies are necessary, my Lord,” Shisui tells him, muscles twisting as he finds himself the focus of the moneyed onlookers, loathe to be the object of their perverse fascination. 

Hidden beneath the covering of the long, lace tablecloth, Itachi reaches for Shisui, brushing their hands together, and Shisui swallows thickly as he struggles to muffle his reaction. Though it’s only the lightest of touches, soft as the brush of a butterfly’s wings on a young spring day, it sends fire coursing through his body once more. It’s not enough, not even close, but then again with Itachi it never is. A terrifying part of Shisui wonders if this thirst will ever be quenched, if he’ll ever be content with the pieces of himself that Itachi offers up so freely. Still, he reaches for Itachi regardless, linking their fingers for a single dangerous moment before forcing himself to let go. 

What happens after that, truthfully Shisui does not know. The rest of the evening passes in a blur of polite disregard and meaningless, wealth-obsessed smalltalk. When the droning, miserable dinner finally and mercifully winds down, Shisui flees at the first chance of freedom presented to him. Shrugging out of the stuffy suit jacket that probably still faintly smells of Itachi’s bedsheets, he abandons the coat in the parlor room before making a break for the front door with a well-loved pack of cigarettes in his clenched fingers. Outside the stifling yet somehow still suffocating mansion, the fresh air and smell of smoke do wonders to cleanse him of his uncomfortable emotions. Staring up at the night sky, the stars beautifully visible if only because of the emptiness around him, Shisui feels an odd sense of peace, a comfort that’s heightened as Itachi inevitably settles beside him on the steps of his childhood home. 

“You couldn’t get out of that room fast enough, could you?” Itachi asks him, plucking the cigarette from Shisui’s chilled fingers before raising it to his own lips. As younger men Itachi had regarded the habit with disgust and disappointment--right up until he realized he could use it to stoke his father’s scorn. A less charitable part of Shisui wonders if that’s how Itachi views him: as yet another tool he can use to engineer his familial rebellion. But the thought is easy to stomp out when he catches Itachi watching him, fond and indulgent in the moonlight, and contentment seeps through Shisui’s veins like warm champagne. 

“Guilty as charged,” he admits with a smirk, stealing his stick back to take a deep drag that rattles around in his lungs, and licks his lips to savor the acrid taste. He doesn’t miss the way Itachi follows the movement, lids lidded, and the heat from earlier sneaks up on him once more. “Though I suppose it was uncouth of me to flee the scene before properly thanking you for defending my honor.”

Itachi makes a face, nose wrinkling in distaste as he replies, “What a vile man Father has invited into this home. I should have known no decent person would find themselves in our midst--present company excluded,” he adds quickly, and Shisui laughs heartily in response.

“You cannot possibly imagine how flattered I am.” Away from the pressure of Itachi’s family, it’s easy to fall into the sweetness of their dynamic and allow himself to be swept away by their light teasing and the deep knowledge they have of one another. It’s terribly easy to forget all they’re risking by simply looking at one another as if the other person is the sun in an otherwise black and lifeless universe. 

As if reading his mind, Itachi turns to Shisui with a sudden and uncharacteristic ferocity before urgently whispering, “Leave this place with me.” 

Shocked, Shisui can only choke out, “ _What_?” 

Seemingly possessed by some flavor of madness, Itachi grabs one of Shisui’s hands between two of his own. His grip is crushing and his eyes are fever-bright as he stares at Shisui and says, “There is nothing for us here; you know that as well I do.”

“Itachi, there is _everything_ for you here,” Shisui counters in disbelief, and a low note of his frustration bubbles up from Itachi’s throat. 

“You cannot be so foolish as to think that is true,” he retorts, looking almost betrayed by Shisui's pronouncement. “What could I want from this place? What about this life of petty concerns and meaningless high-society bullshit that my father has crafted for me is in any way appealing?” 

A wave of mild panic rolls through Shisui at the words, and without thinking his eyes flicker to the massive building behind him, all too conscious of where they are and who can hear them. “Life isn’t so simple that you can merely walk away from everything your name entails because you find your luxuries so unpleasant.”

Recoiling from him just as he did that day in Shisui’s cabin, Itachi quietly asks, “Is that what I am to you, no more than a pampered, foolish child? Do you truly think so little of me?”

“I think the world of you,” Shisui insists hotly. “You must know that.”

“Must I?” Itachi counters. “The way you speak to me--it’s as if you think I know nothing about this world.”

“Because you don’t!” Shisui snaps, the strength of his temper surprising him as he pulls himself from Itachi’s grasp. “It’s so easy for you to forsake a life of beautiful trappings and beautiful people because it’s all you have ever known. You have no clue of how it feels to be on the other side of the world, to live on the scraps that men like you and your father are kind enough to toss to the hungry and broken people that exist below them.” 

The quiet sadness across Itachi’s face is painful to look at, akin to shoving pieces of glass into his open eyes, and Shisui turns from the sight before it can blind him. “Shisui,” Itachi begins, but Shisui shakes his head in response.

“Save your pity, I neither need nor want it,” he mutters, stamping his cigarette with a harsh flick of his wrist. His anger drains as quickly as it arrives, leaving him feeling exhausted and jittery, along with being very ready to see this night’s end.

Still, despite his sharp tongue Itachi continues to treat him as if he’s a tender thing. With a gentle touch of his hand he rests his palm on Shisui’s cheek and turns him so they’re facing one another once more. “What about my love, then?” he asks, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Do you want that?”

“Always,” Shisui admits, the word equal parts soft and hungry, and Itachi melts under the weight of the confession.

“Leave this place with me,” he repeats, then rests a finger across Shisui’s lips when he opens his mouth to argue against the request once more. “Come with me to a place where no one knows who we are and nothing will keep us from one another. Let me show you there’s good in this world. Let me give it to you.” 

His desperate, almost demanding affection leaves Shisui speechless. Despite his better instincts, he can’t bring himself to pierce the veil of Itachi’s naively beautiful daydream. As evidenced by the events from early in the evening, he’s never been all that good at denying himself anything when it comes to Itachi. “Okay,” he replies, surprising even himself as he releases the agreement into the chilly night air.

At his acquiescence, Itachi beams at him, his smile the most beautiful thing Shisui has ever seen. And despite his better judgement hope blooms in his chest, like a flower rising from the barren earth at the first sight of spring. It’s a wonderful notion, the idea that the two of them can steal off together and find their way to a better life without a single clue as to how they’re going to get there, and Shisui wants to believe in it the way just men believe in their gods or their intellect. 

In the moment, such a desire seems romantic, almost whimsical in its cluelessness. But in less than a few hours, such conviction will lead to nothing except their downfall, and the bitterness of Shisui’s fleeting joy will sit between his teeth and ache for years. 

*

Before their absence from the festivities can be noted and questioned, Itachi and Shisui return to the seemingly unending Uchiha banquet. As they enter the mansion it’s nearly impossible to look away from one another, exchanging glances giddy and filled with promise. Mentally Shisui’s already trying to calculate the logistics of their plan--when they’ll leave, where they’ll go--and knows Itachi well enough to suspect his bookish and normally level-headed friend is no doubt doing the same. For all the time he’s been in Shisui’s life, Itachi has been a calm, disciplined presence, never one prone to rash decisions or fanciful notions. It seizes Shisui then, to think of how much of his life Itachi is willing to abandon, all for the sake of his devotion to the man he loves, and the strength of this knowledge almost leaves him breathless. While the fear of failure or loss doesn't leave Shisui in that moment, it suddenly becomes so much smaller in the face of all he stands to gain. 

Of course, that buoyant joy fades as they enter the common room and are greeted by an army of somber and judgment faces. Terror grips Shisui instantly, as immediately he assumes their illicit affair has been discovered, and a flurry of images involving separation, pain, and prison flit through his racing mind. 

From beside him Itachi appears equally unnerved, but is brave enough to face the group and ask, “Has something happened?” 

Fugaku looks at Shisui, his gaze harsh and heavy enough it lands like a physical thing, before shifting his focus to his eldest son. “It would be best if you did not bear witness to this conversation.”

Equal parts defensive of Shisui and resistant to his father’s orders, Itachi presses himself closer to Shisui. “No,” he argues, voice brimming with thinly-veiled contempt, “I’d prefer to stay.” 

Wordlessly, Fugaku crosses the expanse of the room to take Shisui’s long-forgotten jacket in his hand. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Shisui watches as Fugaku reaches into one of the pockets and pulls out a gaudy necklace, thick and heavy with a combination of glittering diamonds and finely-polished gems, before the man levels him with a glare. “Would you care to explain this?” he all but demands, and in that moment Shisui can’t summon a single moment to save himself.

Immediately, Itachi leaps in to do the job for him. “What exactly are you implying?” he hisses, speaking to his father in a way he’s never done before, as he places himself in front of Shisui protectively. 

“What is there to imply?” Obito cuts in, almost smugly amused by the collapse playing out in front of him as he lingers by the Uchiha patriarch. “The evidence very clearly speaks for itself.” 

“Oh, be quiet!” Itachi snaps. “Who are you to come into this home and proclaim judgement over its residents? You’re nothing to us.”

“Itachi!” Mikoto cries, visibly horrified by her son’s insolence, though the object of Itachi’s attack only offers a nasty little smirk in return. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize your family was so gracious as to take on such charity cases,” he retorts, and Shisui’s blood runs cold. “After all, the boy isn’t exactly a resident of this estate, is he? Merely a poor criminal’s son who has very foolishly decided to take after his thieving father. And look how he’s turned on you after all your kindness--though I suppose people like him always do reveal their true natures, in one way or another.” 

“You conniving, spineless, son of a bitch,” Itachi snarls, moving closer to Obito’s orbit with his fists curled and his shoulders squared, and Shisui feels so very distant from his own body as he watches the scene unfold. 

“ _Enough_ ,” Fugaku announces, tone booming, and the barely-contained fury in his authoritative voice silences the chaos building in front of him. Pinning Shisui with a pitiless gaze, he asks, “Do you have any way to explain this?”

“You know that I would not betray the generosity you’ve shown me,” he says, finally summoning the words to defend himself. “You must know I’m not that kind of man.” 

“I want to believe that,” Fugaku replies, and to his credit at least manages to appear troubled by the prospect of seeing Shisui so poorly. “But regrettably Obito raises a valid point: the evidence does in fact speak for itself. So tell me, Shisui, how I can cast my eyes away from it and continue to keep my faith in you?” 

“Perhaps an explanation of your whereabouts this evening, or an alibi of some sort,” Mikoto suggests, with a hopefulness that’s oddly touching despite the utter wretchedness of the current moment, but it only makes Shisui feel sicker. Because there is nothing he can tell her, tell all of them, without further incriminating himself in the process and dragging Itachi down with him. It’s not as if he can look in the woman’s face and reply, _I was making love to your oldest son under your own roof_ , and expect that such an answer would cause anything short of figurative and maybe even literal bloodshed. So Shisui stands there, his tongue heavy in his mouth, as every set of eyes in the room bores into him, eagerly waiting for an excuse that will never come--at least, not from Shisui himself. 

“Of course there is!” Sasuke tells his mother breathlessly, dashing into the room with wide eyes and a determined tension to his mouth. “There’s no way Shisui could have stolen anything! He was with Itachi all night!” 

At the proclamation Shisui freezes, his breath caught in his chest, and Itachi’s reaction mirrors his own in sickening symmetry. With his simplistic point of view and childish passion, Sasuke has unknowingly exposed them both in the most sudden and ruthless fashion imaginable, and Shisui has no clue how to rescue this sinking ship.

Delighted, Obito presses, “Is that right?” 

Predictably, Fugaku looks far less pleased, his expression morphing into something brutal as he once again looks between them. But he says nothing, perhaps unable to even put words to such a foul notion.

Finally finding his voice once more, Shisui says, “Not at all. I’m afraid I haven’t spent much time in Itachi’s company since he returned home.”

“Yes, you have,” Sasuke insists, confused written all over his small face. “You guys have been acting oddly around each other ever since Brother came home. And you were behaving especially strangely when I found you two in his room earlier this evening.” 

“ _Sasuke_ ,” Shisui interrupts sharply, sweat prickling at his scalp as the situation somehow manages to implode further, “there’s no need to lie for my sake.” 

“But I’m not lying!” Sasuke all but whines, earnest in the worst way possible, and irrationally Shisui wants to drag him from the room so he cannot incriminate the two men any further. Turning to his brother, Sasuke all but pleads, “Itachi, tell them!”

But Itachi doesn’t. Frozen into silence, he doesn’t dare speak a word. In a way, Shisui is almost glad for his unexpected cowardice; it’s better this way, much more tolerable that only one of them has to suffer the consequences of their unthinkable passion. And it's then that Shisui realizes he was wrong to lose his patience with Itachi for his ignorance, as Itachi cannot be anything but what he has been raised to become. Getting angry with Itachi for his blue-blood nobility or his unrealisitic dreams was like cursing mold for growing or a dog for biting; you couldn't punish something for existing exactly as it was meant to. 

“I tire of this nonsense,” Fugaku finally speaks, waving a hand dismissively as he says, “All of you, leave us.”

“Father--” Itachi begins.

“Now,” Fugaku orders, leaving no room for disobedience, and despite the swirling emotions the residents of the room are experiencing each person falls in line. Even Itachi, who stares at Shisui with miserable, pleading eyes before dragging himself from the horrible scene before him.

Sighing harshly, Fugaku reaches to pour himself a glass of dark colored liquid and downs the drink in a shockingly quick fashion. It’s the first time Shisui’s ever seen the normally composed, severe man so woefully unglued, and under any other circumstance it would fascinate, maybe even amuse him. But in his current predicament it’s almost terrifying, imagining that his life lies in the hands of this man. Eventually Fugaku whispers, disgusted and unwilling, “I knew. I never wanted to, but I always knew about you two.” 

“It isn’t his fault,” Shisui counters automatically, and Fugaku’s head snaps up to regard him.

“Of course it isn’t,” Fugaku replies smoothly, “it’s yours. Itachi is too kind, too naive, to see what you really are. But Obito is correct: you truly are your father’s son.”

“I have stolen _nothing_ from you,” he insists. “You must believe me when I say that I have no clue how that necklace ended up in my possession.”

“I couldn’t care less about a useless piece of jewelry,” Fugaku counters flatly. “That isn’t the type of thievery that concerns me.” 

Rage flickers through Shisui like a fire at the implication of those words. “Itachi isn’t your _property_ ,” he snarls, and Fugaku’s gaze darkens further.

“Perhaps,” he replies, almost inhumanly calm despite the angry tremble to his fingers, “but he certainly does not belong to you.” 

Without warning, Shisui unwillingly recalls Itachi’s words from earlier, the proclamation that feels so very distant from his current moment: _I love you, I always have_. How long had Fugaku watched his child trail at Shisui’s feet, wide-eyed and lovestruck? How many years had he stewed in his distrust of Shisui, always suspecting the bond that existed between the boys yet never having any concrete proof to seriously question it? 

“It must be a relief,” Shisui tells him, after an unknowably long span of speechlessness, “to finally have some concrete way to keep us from one another.”

Somehow Fugaku’s near-permanent grimace manages to deepen. “You would be wise to admit your guilt and save yourself the trouble of failing to prove your innocence,” he advises. “Lest you find yourself charged with an even more severe crime.”

Though Shisui isn’t stupid enough to expect morality from Uchiha Fugaku of all people, it seems too cruel to imagine him turning his vengeance on Itachi. “Are you truly so craven that you would destroy your own son just to prove a point?”

“Itachi won’t be the one to suffer for this,” Fugaku replies. “I have ways of protecting him from his mistakes.”

At that Shisui can’t help but laugh, the sound bleak and humorless. If nothing else at least he can find an ironic sort of comfort in the knowledge that he was right in his prior assumption. The reason it was easy for Itachi to offer Shisui his life was because he didn’t actually have the power to offer anything at all. His life was never his and it certainly would never be Shisui’s. In the end, Shisui’s preconceived notions were dreadfully correct: all he would ever be was an impoverished fool, chasing after something good, something beautiful, that would never truly be within his grasp. 

In light of that revelation, a terrible desire to burn this world he’s been forcibly exiled from suddenly grips him. “Perhaps that’s true,” he allows mildly. “Perhaps you can sweep all this away with a few bribes and political maneuvering. But, Fugaku: from the bottom of my heart, I’d like you to know this.” 

Looking directly into the man’s fathomless glare, Shisui flashes his most lovely smile and declares, “It doesn’t matter where you send me or what stories you spin about my life. Nor does it matter how much wealth your perfect son generates for you and the glory he brings to your family name. And it certainly does not matter what high-born, docile woman you force him to marry. Because I can assure you this: everytime you look into her pretty, empty face, all you’re going to think about is how I got there first.” 

Intellectually, Shisui isn’t surprised when Fugaku strikes him. But the brightness of the pain, the way his lip swells and aches as blood seeps from the wound Fugaku has left behind, manages to shock Shisui down to his bones. Even Fugaku himself seems startled by his act of violence, his outstretched palm shaking as it stays raised just above Shisui’s face. For a moment they merely stare at one another, as if daring each other to lash at once more, yet neither man dares to act. 

After that, it’s almost a relief when Fugaku leaves him to summon the local police. 

*

It’s fitting, in a monsterous way, that Shisui is taken from Itachi’s life for good in the very same spot he promised Itachi his future.

Vaguely, he’s aware of Itachi calling his name, emerging from inside the house despite his mother’s protests as the officers walk Shisui down the steps of the Uchiha manor. It’s a detail he tries his damndest to block out, because he’s sure that if he doesn’t the fragile and frantic sound of Itachi’s voice will haunt him for the rest of his colorless existence. 

But he can’t ignore the way Itachi catches up to the procession, shoving at the officers in order to reach Shisui. And he can’t tear his mind away as Itachi wraps his arms around him and whispers into his ear, the words ragged yet unyielding, “I’m sorry. I’ll find you. No matter what, I’ll find you.” 

The embrace lasts just a second, as in the blink of an eye Itachi is pulled from him and Shisui is shoved into a police car with all the unkindness his captor can summon. 

It’s just as well, though, as Shisui is fairly certain he’s had enough of Itachi’s unintentionally false promises. Tired in every way a man can be tired, he chooses to close his eyes and surrender to sleep as the road flows below him. 

Yet try as he might, he can’t ignore how the image of Itachi’s tear-streaked face clings to his lids. 


End file.
